Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

  No living man had greater respect for a brave soldier who had placed the ultimate gift on the altar for his country, than Washington. He searched the depths of his soul for the answer to André’s request. In his mind he saw Americans who had been serving their country in the secrecy of the spy network, and had been hanged for their efforts. Among them was the twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher, Nathan Hale, caught sketching British gun emplacements on the mainland north of Long Island. By order of General William Howe, he had gone to the gallows with head high, declaring his regret that he had but one life to give for his country and the cause of liberty.

  Finally, as had been his unwavering principle from the beginning, General Washington rose above the pain in his heart and asked the ultimate question. What was the universal punishment for convicted spies? He entered his order: John André would be hanged at five o’clock p.m. the following day, October 2, 1780.

  A large crowd had gathered around the gallows. Two men led André to the gallows, and the wagon in which he was to stand rumbled to a stop. The tailgate was dropped, and André seized it to climb unassisted up into the bed of the wagon and stand erect.

  A hush settled over the crowd, followed by a moan and a murmur.

  For a moment André shrank, but instantly straightened, and his head came up high. He placed his hands on his hips and stepped back slightly to view the beam to which the hangman’s noose would be anchored overhead.

  Colonel Alexander Scammel looked André in the face, and for a moment battled approaching tears. He unrolled a scroll, and in a breaking voice read the death sentence. He then turned to André.

  “Major André, if you have anything to say, you can speak, for you have but a short time to live.”

  André took a deep breath. “I have nothing more to say, gentlemen, but this: you all bear me witness that I meet my fate as a brave man.”

  The murmuring in the crowd rose to a crescendo. Women wept. Strong men looked away.

  The hangman, face blackened by grease and soot, climbed into the wagon and reached for the noose, coiled to one side. André seized it from him, loosened his shirt collar, and placed the rope over his head to tighten it about his neck with the knot beneath his right ear. He drew a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and tied it around his eyes with steady hands, then placed his hands on his hips, waiting.

  Scammel croaked, “His hands must be tied.”

  Instantly André removed the handkerchief from his eyes and drew a second, larger kerchief from his pocket and handed it to the executioner. He again tied the smaller one over his eyes and stood quietly as the executioner tied his hands behind his back.

  The prologue was finished. The executioner seized the loose end of the rope, climbed to the overhead beam, looped it over, drew it snug, and tied it. He climbed back down to the wagon bed, and plucked the whip from its socket. The sounds in the crowd reached hysteria. André stood motionless.

  The hangman drew the whip back, then forward. It struck the horse on the flanks, the animal lunged into the collar, and the wagon lurched forward.

  Notes

  The reader is requested to review the notes for the preceding chapter, particularly the advice that the defection and treason of Benedict Arnold is necessarily being presented herein in an abridged format.

  Thus, again, the names, dates, and occurrences set forth in this chapter are true and correct, and many of the conversations are quoted verbatim from the best records available. The essence of the heartrending affair is preserved (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 346–93; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 576–81).

  Northwestern Section of South Carolina

  Mid-September 1780

  CHAPTER XXV

  * * *

  With the sun a great, glowing brass ball rising in the east, Caleb heard the choppy hoofbeats of an approaching trotting horse. Within fifteen seconds the only evidence that the forty-six men in the fighting command of Francis Marion had been in the shade of the thick South Carolina forest were the dead remains of a water-soaked morning cook fire, and grass and ferns disturbed by moccasined feet. Invisible in the maples and pines and thick undergrowth surrounding the tiny clearing, Marion’s men silently watched and waited, thumbs hooked over the hammers of their long .54-caliber Deckhard rifles.

  The rider jumped his horse belly-deep into the stream just west of the camp and kicked it up the near bank onto level ground, hunched forward in the saddle, pushing on through the limbs and leaves that reached snagging. He came back on the reins and stopped the dappled gray mount fifteen feet from the blackened remains of the fire, holding his rifle over his head in spread hands while his travel-weary horse caught its wind.

  “Friend. Jacob Toller. Carryin’ a message.” He was tall, broad through the shoulders, clad in buckskins and moccasins, with a heavy beard streaked with tobacco juice, cavernous eyes, and long, dark hair hanging loose. He swung down from the saddle and turned in a circle, calling out once more, “Friend. Jacob Toller. Carryin’ a message.”

  Without a sound Colonel Francis Marion was in the clearing, eyes narrowed as he studied the man.

  “Colonel Marion, sir,” the man exclaimed, “been lookin’ for you. There’s trouble over the mountain.”

  Twenty more men stood in the forest behind Marion and walked to form a circle around the two men, rifles held loosely at waist level, muzzles bearing on the midsection of the tired messenger.

  “How’d you find us?” Marion asked.

  “Someone told me you was over here on the Pee Dee. Climbed a pine tree. Seen your smoke at sunup.” He pointed at the drowned campfire.

  “What town you from?”

  “No town. Over the mountains west. Got a cabin and a wife and kids on the Watauga River.”

  “Who’s the officer in charge over there?”

  “Shelby. Colonel Isaac Shelby.”

  From behind the horse, the remainder of Marion’s command came in quietly, among them Sam Chelsey, Caleb, and Primus. They uncocked their rifles and stood silent, taking in the man’s buckskins, his rifle, powder horn, and bullet pouch, then his horse and saddle. Tied behind the saddle seat, on the skirt, was a small leather bag, nothing more; the man knew how to travel light in the forest. Chelsey turned, nodded, and pointed with his chin, and eight men melted back into the forest and disappeared.

  Marion’s high voice continued. “What’s happened?”

  “Got a message. Sent by Patrick Ferguson. He’s a colonel in the British Army. He said if we don’t quit fightin’ the British he figgers to come over the mountains and hang the bunch of us and burn out our families.”

  “I know Ferguson. Who was the messenger?”

  “Phillips. Sam Phillips.”

  Chelsey interrupted. “I know Phillips. He’s on our side. Heard he was caught by the British.”

  “He was, but Ferguson put him on parole and sent him with the message.”

  Marion’s eyes narrowed in question. “Ferguson says he’ll come west, over the mountains? Why? He’s part of Cornwallis’s command, a long way east of the Watauga. Why would he go there?”

  “Simple,” the man exclaimed. “Cornwallis got to figgerin’. He took Savannah and Charleston, and Beaufort and Georgetown. Tarleton caught Buford up in the Waxhaws and done him in proper. Cornwallis took Gates’s whole army at Camden, and cleaned out a lot of men at Fishing Creek. Then he sends Ferguson over around Gilberttown and he beats Charles McDowell and drives what’s left of his men over the mountains and they scatter out on the Watauga and Nolichucky and the Holston. Cornwallis adds ’er all up and figgers he’s whipped everybody in the South. So he gets big idees of movin’ on north, clean up past Virginia. Take over the Chesapeake, and then start pickin’ off the northern states one at a time. Only thing is, he don’t like the idee of havin’ us hangin’ off out there to the west, cuttin’ up his troops, raidin’ into his supply lines, and such. So he sends Phillips to give us warnin’. Either we quit, or he sends Ferguson to get rid of us.
”

  Five seconds passed while Marion reflected. “Got anybody to support what Phillips said?”

  “Shore do. Joseph Kerr’s one of our spies. He’s crippled, and the British don’t pay him no mind. Kerr went right in among ’em and found out the whole thing. Then Chronicle—Major William Chronicle from over at Gilberton and the South Ford woods—he sent another spy in—Enoch Gilmer—and he come back with the same report. Ferguson’s marchin’ right now.”

  “Where?”

  Toller went on. “Headed west. Figgers to do what he said—come hang us and burn us out. That’s not all. When Shelby and McDowell heard, they figgered it’d be best to take on Ferguson over here, not over there amongst our farms and families. So Isaac Shelby lit out on horseback and come east to tell his friend John Sevier. Sevier commands the militia up in Washington County. The two of ’em—Shelby and Sevier—sent riders out in all directions to gather men to fight Ferguson. I got sent here to find you. Question is, have you got any men you can spare to go up there and take on Ferguson?”

  The eight men Chelsey had silently ordered out of camp just minutes earlier appeared and walked back to the circle. Chelsey looked at them, they nodded, and Chelsey turned to Marion, who was watching. Chelsey nodded to Marion, and Marion turned back to Toller, assured the man had come alone and that the horses belonging to his men were all right. Toller understood the silent communications and realized he was standing in the midst of possibly the deadliest, finest fighting command on the continent.

  Marion picked it up. “Do you know where Ferguson is right now?”

  “This side of the mountains. He’ll be a few days gettin’ over there.”

  “Shelby and Sevier pick a place to gather?”

  “Sycamore Shoals, on the Watauga.”

  “Who else is coming?”

  “Don’t know all of ’em, but we know Colonel William Campbell’s comin’ from Virginia with about four hundred riflemen. An’ Joseph Winston and Ben Cleveland’s comin’ from Wilkes and Surry counties with about three hundred more. Maybe three fifty. McDowell went north to see if we can get Gen’l Dan Morgan to come down here, but that’s doubtful. An’ then there’s Ed Lacey and William Hill—they was trained by Colonel Elijah Clarke—they’re comin’ with a bunch from around here. Hambright, Graham, Chronicle—all bringin’ in some volunteers. And there’s more.”

  Marion knew the men Toller had named were among the most experienced fighting men in the Carolina mountains. Most of the men they led could not write a single word, few could read. They wore clothing made from animal skins, seldom cut their hair, chewed tobacco that trickled juice into their full, long beards, and bathed only annually. They carried the long, deadly Deckhard rifles, and could drive nails with the .54-caliber rifleballs at fifteen paces. At three hundred yards they could knock a running deer tumbling. They had learned war from the Indians, and in the forest could set, spring, and finish an ambush in seconds that would leave a force ten times their number dead or dying, and then disappear so completely that following them was impossible. In a hand-to-hand fight they abandoned their rifles to terrorize an enemy with the tomahawk and knife—sure, efficient, deadly. They were master horsemen who could tie a small bag of parched corn sweetened with molasses onto their saddles and live on it for days. When the corn ran out, they would live off the land indefinitely. Their religion was Christianity, and their preachers were loud and profane, teaching of a God of fire and brimstone.

  A flicker of a smile crossed Marion’s face. Did Ferguson really think he was going to send a message over the mountain to these men and frighten them into submission? To the contrary, the day Phillips delivered Ferguson’s threat was the day these men reached above the kitchen door for those deadly Deckhard rifles, scooped three pounds of parched corn into a leather bag, saddled their horses, kissed their wives, and started east to educate Major Patrick Ferguson.

  Marion reached to scratch his beard. “Your spies say how many men Ferguson has, and who they are?”

  “He’s got command of about four thousand, but it looks like he’s picked nine hundred of his best for the march over the mountains. An’ there’s one more thing that makes this real interestin’. The men he picked are all Tories. Americans. He’s the only British soldier in the whole bunch.” Toller stopped for a moment before he finished. “Looks like this fight’ll be between Americans. Those favorin’ the British agin those of us who favor independence.”

  “Who will command my men, if I send any?”

  “Likely Ed Lacey. Colonel Edward Lacey.”

  “I know him. He’ll do.” Marion paused for a moment. “Hungry?”

  “I could eat, an’ my horse could use some grain and rest before I go. Got to get on over to the Santee to see if there’s others who’ll volunteer against Ferguson.”

  Two of Marion’s men knelt to rekindle a cook fire, and Marion gestured toward them. “They’ll take care of you and your horse.”

  Marion walked away, deep in thought, Chelsey by his side. For a moment Caleb hesitated, then fell in step behind them, with Primus following. Chelsey spoke and Marion slowed to listen.

  “You figger to go up for the fight?”

  Marion shook his head. “Can’t. I got orders to stay here on the Pee Dee. With Sumter and Davie and Davidson south and west of us, I have to hold my position here.”

  “Goin’ to send a few of us up there?”

  “That’s what I got in mind.”

  “I got a married sister over there on the Holston River, and I know Ed Lacey. I’ll go.”

  For a time Marion stared at the ground, then raised his eyes to Chelsey. “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Lead about six, maybe eight men?”

  “Easy.”

  “Why don’t you pick ’em and get ready.”

  Chelsey grinned. “Yes, sir.” He turned to go and stopped short at the sight of Caleb, two steps behind.

  “Sir,” Caleb asked, “are you going to Sycamore Shoals with some men?”

  Chelsey glanced back at Marion, and Marion squinted a quizzical eye. “You got an interest in this thing with Ferguson?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No, not Ferguson. Going north. I was sent down to join the Continentals under General Lincoln, but they’re all gone. I need to find a command from Massachusetts, or New York. That’s where I’m from. Might be someone from up there at the battle.”

  Marion nodded. “Things could get fierce. You ready for that?”

  “I’ve been in battle. Some bad ones.”

  “Got a horse?”

  “No. I’ll go on foot. I can keep up.”

  Chesley cut in. “We got horses.”

  Marion looked past Caleb, at Primus. “What about you?”

  Primus swallowed. “Me? I from the South, not the North. Only life I know is a slave. Been thinkin’,” he said to Caleb, “you got slaves up there?”

  “Not where I lived.”

  Primus shook his head slowly, with a look of wonderment in his black eyes. “Can’t hardly think about livin’ where they’s no slaves. Somethin’ I dream about my whole life. Like to see such a place once before I dead.”

  Marion turned to Chelsey. “Know where Sycamore Shoals is?”

  “Been there.”

  “Pick your men.”

  Half an hour later found Captain Chelsey leading a column of eight mounted men northwest, ever deeper into the mountains. In the middle of the column rode Caleb and Primus, rifles in hand, a pouch of parched corn tied behind their saddle seats.

  For three days the tiny command pushed steadily through the mountains and valleys before Chelsey held up his hand, and they stopped. In the distance was a natural clearing ringed by sycamore trees where the Watauga River ran broad and shallow, with hidden rocks roiling the water as it flowed to the sea. Three hours later, in the sweltering heat of late afternoon, Chelsey led his men into the Sycamore Shoals rendezvous.

  Caleb followed Chelsey into the loud, boisterous gathering, s
ilently studying the milling crowd and what appeared to be the total lack of military décorum and order. The men were taller than average, rawboned and rangy, shaggy, bearded, dressed in worn buckskins. They wore knives, with tomahawks thrust through their belts. Women dressed in coarse homespun walked freely among the men, hair pulled back, and children ran loose in the camp.

  Chelsey stood tall in the stirrups for a moment, then reined his horse toward the far edge of the clearing and worked his way through the crowd with his men following. He stopped, facing a man standing on the ground.

  “Afternoon, Ed,” he said.

  Colonel Edward Lacey grinned in his beard. “Sam! Sam Chelsey! Marion send you?”

  “Me and these behind me.” He hooked a thumb, pointing, and Lacey ran a critical eye over the mounted men.

  “Just gettin’ in?”

  “Two minutes ago. You fixin’ to go after Ferguson?”

  “Tomorrow mornin’ we start east to find him.”

  “Marion said you’d have command of some of us from the Pee Dee. Care for nine more?”

  “Right proud to have you. Git your men on the ground. Hungry?”

  “We could eat.”

  Chelsey and his men dismounted, stretched their leg and back muscles for a moment, then followed Lacey to a cook fire where a huge black kettle smoked with venison stew. The women handed each man a spoon and a scarred wooden bowl, with wisps of steam rising from the thick stew, and a wooden cup of tepid water. The men picked a thick slice of heavy, dark bread from a cutting board and sat down cross-legged in the grass to eat, while they studied the gathering.

  Caleb said nothing as he stared, awed, baffled by the strange, unspoken rules of the camp. In the glow of the setting sun he could not see one man with the hat, or the braid, or the uniform of an officer. Men laughed and slapped each other on the back to share humor, or wild hunting stories, or tall tales of hand-to-hand battles with giant bears or elk, while the women joined in, laughing, sharing in the backslapping and exaggerated humor.